What Has Happened to all my Little Ladies?

I’m going to miss all my little ladies.

For each lady hair that falls from my head, she leaves a frightening space where no hair dares take her place.  There, there and there.  She’s gone, never to return.

I see so many women now with thinning hair.  Like me.  It’s inexplicable.  Are we all gifted with so many brains that our hair falls out from the sheer heat of our genius?  I doubt it.

Maybe we all drank milk from the same cow.  The same infected cow?  Improbable.

Maybe we each ate something.  Or it was in the water.  Or the air.

The air!

Now, that is possible.  The air.  The Air!  When I was a child, I remember tests of nuclear thingys were conducted.  In Nevada, I think.   All I remember is that when the bell rang, I was always told to get under my desk and be scared of communists.  I do recall reading that the winds distributed stuff everywhere.  Maybe the cows ate the grass that was watered by the fallout that was seeded by the clouds that took up the gas that was baked by the hen that scolded the ant that outlived the grasshopper – and now all the little ladies are dying off our heads.

All I know is that I see so many women in Arizona with their scalps on promenade.  We’re losing our hair.  By the droves, we’re losing it.  Maybe I only notice it here because Phoenix is too hot to wear a concealing wig.  (Personally, I’m into baseball hats.)  Whatever the cause, we’re losing it.

We’re blasted losing it.

I can hear the men laughing.  Join the club.  The Hair Club.  Um, guys, we don’t want to join your club.  We want our crowning glories to remain.  Women don’t want to look manly and handsome.  Maybe you don’t understand.  Our hair is falling out … plink, plink, plink.  Women are not supposed to be bald.

I’m going to the wig store in the mall tomorrow.  I’m going to sit in the barber shop chair and tears are going to fall from my eyes as I reach up to remove my baseball cap.

It seems I’m now one of the  little old bald women who’s lost all the beautiful ladies from the top of her head and no one has an answer for this malady except a very hot and itchy wig made from someone else’s hair.

But — Bless you, Someone Else, who grew some hair to weave in a wig to sit on the head of a bald woman you’ll never know that was destroyed by the air that was watered by the clouds that grew the wheat that was harvested by the hen and baked into bread that was  … that was …  Well, just, Bless you.

I think I’ll be a blonde again.